


A Kind of Christmas

by Katzedecimal



Series: Sherlock Holmes and Doctor... What, son? [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, His Last Vow Spoilers, Season/Series 03 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-28
Updated: 2014-02-28
Packaged: 2018-01-14 01:02:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1246849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katzedecimal/pseuds/Katzedecimal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The events of Christmas knock off Philip Anderson's rose-coloured fanboy glasses. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Set near the end of <i>His Last Vow</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It was nine o'clock at night and Philip Anderson was making his rounds at the bank. He knew that a major operation was being planned and there was at least one insider in on it but he didn't know who or how. He circulated, talking with the security guards, observing everything. 

Until the lift repair team caught his eye. He watched them for a while then pulled out his phone. 

(Tue 21:03 SH: Watch the lift crew.)

He drifted after them, watching as the lift descended. 

(Tue 21:05 J. Watson: Lift's just arrived. Met by a loan officer.)

(Tue 21:06 SH: Try to follow them.)

The men continued down the hall, completely heedless of the custodian pushing his janitorial barrow along behind them. He glanced quickly up at the CCTV cameras along the way. 

(Tue 21:08 P. Anderson: Got cams on them.)

(Tue 21:09 SH: Make the call.)  
(Tue 21:09 SH: I'm almost there. Anderson's making the call.)

It would later be described as one of the best busts in Detective Inspector Lestrade's career, finally catching the Charleton Crew. There had been an ambush then a fight, then the real Philip Anderson had tagged all of the physical evidence required, along with the video evidence, to secure a conviction. Sherlock grinned at him, handing him back his ID and uniform before letting John tend to his injuries. 

Philip didn't miss the way that Sherlock looked at John. And he didn't miss the way that John looked at Sherlock. 

* * * * 

"You're looking a little happier now that John's working with you again," Philip observed a few days later, "But he still hasn't moved back? Where's he staying?"

"With his sister," Sherlock sighed, "Which tells much about how he views the whole situation."

"He's still not speaking to you?"

Sherlock shook his head but clarified, "He speaks to me some, more than he speaks to Mary. He views me as just as much an author of his distress."

"I guess all you can do is wait it out."

"That's what I said to Mary."

Philip frowned, "You still speak to her?"

"Oh yes," Sherlock shrugged, "I like Mary. She's clever. She's good for John."

"She bloody shot you!"

Sherlock shrugged yet again, "It's nothing everybody else hasn't wanted to do, over the years." 

"She didn't just shoot you, she actually killed you!" Philip said, incredulous, "You were clinically **dead** and you can actually forgive that?"

Sherlock smirked and quirked an eyebrow at Philip, "Still think you want to be my friend?"

Philip shook his head in amazement. "Fuck, I wondered how you could forgive me."

"You're useful," Sherlock snickered, "And improving."

"Yeah, thanks for that," Philip chuckled. He took another sip of tea. "Well I hope he starts speaking to you again soon. He's good for you."

"I know." There was no mistaking the quiet sadness in Sherlock's tone.

"And you're good for him, too."

Sherlock snerked. "Since meeting me, he's been made into a human bomb, had an assassin on him to force me to kill myself, and within hours of my returning to London, he was abducted and put into a bonfire," he said, "I'm pretty certain John would argue about that."

"Anybody else would have bailed out," Philip replied, "John doesn't. He keeps coming back for more." 

"Like I said last month, it's a character flaw. John honestly wants to believe that he's normal and that he wants a normal life."

Philip rolled his eyes, "Pshyeah right, which is why he's been such a yob ever since he moved into the suburbs."

"Ah, good, I thought only I had noticed that."

"Heck, no!" Philip shook his head and sipped his tea, "I used to think it was you who got off on crime scenes but it was both of you. John just hides it better."

Sherlock nodded, "He's an adrenaline junkie in denial. He believes he wants a normal, quiet life in the suburbs with a normal, quiet wife. Ever since he got that, it's been tearing him apart."

"Honestly, I was surprised that he married someone else, now that you're back."

"I'm not. I knew it would happen some day." Sherlock couldn't quite keep the trace of bitterness out of his voice, "John's very insistant on asserting his heterosexuality."

Philip blinked, "He's straight? I thought for sure he was bi." Sherlock shrugged and Philip's eyes filled with sympathy, "Jesus, that's hard. Does he even realise?"

Sherlock shook his head, "It wouldn't matter in any case."

"Why the hell not??"

Sherlock gave him a scornful look, "Because I'm male?"

"Oh fuck, Sherlock...! You faked your death to save the man's life, you walked the world to make it safe for him, you've supported his relationship even after his wife tried to kill you for God's sake AND you let him make his own decision about it. Christ, Sherlock, if it was me, I wouldn't care if there's a cock involved, there'd be a ring on it so fast it'd make your head spin!" There was a beat of silence before both of them broke up laughing. Philip buried his face in his hands, purple like unto a beet, "Oh God, that SO did not come out right."

"Your Freudian slip is showing."

"Oh god is it ever." He pulled his hands from his face and wiped his eyes, "What I **meant** was, being gay has nothing to do with it. If it's the _person_ I loved and he loved me with the kind of devotion that you love John, I'd find a way to make it work. I'd deal with it."

Sherlock nodded silently, then grinned wickedly, "You have a hell of a way of saying it, though."

"Oh God, do I ever...! I'm never going to live that down, am I?"

"Maybe." They laughed again so that neither of them heard the ninth stair creak as John crept back out to the street. He let the exterior door close gently behind him then leaned against it, shaken.

* * * * 

He got the call on Christmas night. It was Sally. "I told you! I was right about that Freak!"

"What?" his own voice sounded wooden to his ears.

"Yep! The Freak finally freaked out!" Sally's voice was almost delirious with gloating, "He flipped and blew the head off of some tabloid publisher."

"Magnusson?"

"Yeah, that's the guy. The Freak put a bullet right through his brain! Should've put it through his own brain, save us tax payers all the trouble of having to support him 'at Her Majesty's pleasure.'"

"Where is he?"

"Under house arrest. The Freak must have some pretty powerful friends."

Philip cut the call without another word. His mind whirled, keeping him awake for the rest of the night. It hadn't settled by morning, when he drove to Baker Street, where Mrs. Hudson let him in and he climbed the seventeen steps and pushed open the inside door. There was a tiny, miserable ball curled up on the couch, back to the room. An anklet glittered on the figure's foot. "Is it true?"

Sherlock didn't move. Minutes ticked passed. Finally he whispered, "Sally was right."

Philip closed the door and left.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sally was right... or was she?

_How the hell could I have been so blind? How could I have convinced myself that Sally was wrong? What the fuck was I thinking? We all knew it. We knew it was going to happen. We knew it was just a matter of time. We knew it was going to happen and it has. Who the fuck kills somebody on Christmas?!_

_Fuck._

_And Magnusson? Figures the Freak would kill the Sleazebag. That guy's just as freakish as Sherlock. Fuck._

_Fuck._

He stared at a picture on his desktop, of himself and Sherlock dressed as Newt Geiszler and Hermann Gottlieb, when they'd staked out a comic con searching for a thief who was trafficking valuable comic books. The company Philip worked for had the security contract so when Sherlock had come to him and proposed infiltrating as cosplayers, it was easy for Philip to get them both passes. They'd had a lot of fun and once again, Philip had felt glad to have his position that made him a valuable resource to the consulting detective. Sherlock had been doing that a lot, lately.

_That's just it. He didn't have to do that. He didn't have to forgive me or make me feel useful again. He didn't have to try to remember my name. But he does. He tries to remember my name and I can tell he has to search for it sometimes. And he tells me when I'm doing something right and I can tell he's trying not to say anything whenever I get something wrong. He's been trying to be better, too, and I liked him._

'Sociopaths are charming,' the voice of Sally Donovan sneered across his thoughts. 

_That's just it though - He doesn't **act** like a sociopath. Sherlock hasn't ever been charming. He's been belligerant and insulting and he definitely isn't friendly. He isn't friendly and he pushes people away and that's the exact opposite of what sociopaths do. _

_So what the hell happened?_

_Was it the tabloids? Magnusson was a tabloid publisher; was it all those stories saying what a sex riot he was? But why would he kill over that? There's been a lot worse in the papers about him than saying he's a stud. Hell, half the staff were jealous! Why would he kill over that? Sherlock's never cared about what anybody's thought of him before?_

_Except for John, that is._

_Yeah. There's John. He's in love with John. And love can make people do things. Like, throw yourself off of a building because there's an assassin on him. Pull him out of a fire. Continue supporting his marriage even though his wife tried to kill you, Jesus Christ I still have trouble believing that..._

He thought for a few minutes more then picked up his phone. 

(2:13 AM P. Anderson: Was Magnusson threatening John Watson's life?)

Nearly half an hour passed before his phone chimed. 

(2:38 AM SH: Yes.) 

That was it, then. That was the motivator. 

(2:39 AM P. Anderson: Was there any other way to nullify the threat?)

(2:40 AM SH: No.) 

And there it was. Sherlock would do anything to keep John safe. He'd already died for him, twice. 

(2:48 AM P. Anderson: Sally was wrong.)

* * * *

It was January and the wind blew cold enough to cut through to bone. The fireplace was roaring but even that couldn't warm the chill that ran through Philip at Sherlock's words. "Exile?" he repeated, "That's your punishment? Where?"

"Somewhere in eastern Europe," Sherlock said woodenly. His movements were mechanical as he packed. 

Philip thought about it, leafing through a stack of newspaper headlines. He frowned, "Are these all related to that taxi cab killer a while back?"

Sherlock smirked mirthlessly. "There's the difference money makes: If you drive a humble taxi cab, you're a serial killer, but if you've a multi-million dollar tabloid empire, it's 'just business,'" he finished sourly, "Even though they were both doing exactly the same thing."

Philip flipped through the records, "These go back almost two decades! Nobody clued in to him?"

"His activities were recognised," Sherlock nodded, "But driving people to suicide clearly isn't the same as murdering them." He shook out a shirt and folded it, packing it into the suitcase, and only then recognised how Philip had sucked in his breath. "Oh... I didn't mean..."

"No, I know," Philip cut in, drawing his hands down his face, "It's just... You're right, it **is** the same. That's... That's why I..."

"I know."

"In school," Philip admitted, "I came close twice. Once in high school, once near the end of college. And when you jumped off of Barts, I... I realised I'd become all of those people who'd pushed me to that place and I..." He felt Sherlock's hand on his shoulder and looked up.

"I forgave you a long time ago, Philip," he said gently, "Now you have to forgive yourself."

" _Fuck!_ " Philip rubbed his hands over his face again. "The Empty Hearse wasn't just a few people in England," he said finally, "It's worldwide and once you reappeared, it came back with a vengeance. And there's people in eastern Europe."

Sherlock's smile was thin and empty, "Kind of you but I'm afraid not much good. It's a mission for MI6."

Philip's eyebrows rose, "Espionage?" Sherlock nodded. "Phew! From Sherlock Holmes to James Bond!" Sherlock snorted and shook his head. "What happens after?"

"Who knows."

Philip watched him for a few moments. The set of Sherlock's body was tense and he sounded almost robotic. " **Is** there an after?" Too silent. "Oh _fucking hell,_ Sherlock! It's a suicide mission, isn't it?! They're sending you to die!"

Sherlock didn't look at him. "That's what people do."

"Christ..." Philip rubbed his hands down his face and looked up again, "If you can find any way out of it, remember you've got your own network, okay? There's a lot of people who'll help you."

"Only because they think I'm some kind of hero," Sherlock didn't even have the energy to sneer, "I'm not a hero. Sally was right."

"No, Sally was wrong," Philip said firmly, "She figured if you killed someone, it would be out of boredom and curiosity, not in the defence of someone you love."

"Love is a chemical defect found on the losing side." Sherlock sounded so defeated.

_Says the man who's being sent off on a suicide mission._ Philip sighed. "So this makes three times you'll have died for a man who doesn't even realise what he means to you."

Sherlock said nothing. He zipped his suitcase and glanced at the clock. "My ride will be here shortly." Philip drained his teacup and stood up. Sherlock didn't look at him. "I'd... appreciate if you would look in on Mrs. Hudson from time to time," he said, then hesitantly offered his hand. 

Philip took it and didn't let go. "I'm going to miss you," he said, "Really. You've been probably one of the best friends I've ever had Christ I can't believe this is happening..." He pulled the other man into a hug, tears soaking into his beard. 

Sherlock's free arm came up, intending to pat Philip's shoulder and free himself, not to clutch him tighter and break into dry sobs. 

* * * *

"...and I said to him, 'Is that all you've got? I've been insulted by a master at the art of insulting; if that's the best you can do, that wouldn't even qualify as amateur.'"

 

Mrs. Hudson laughed delightedly. "Oh dear... I have to admit, some of his insults were terribly creative."

Philip grinned, "They really were. I think the best one was when he told Livingston to consider adding more fibre to his diet. It took him _two days_ to figure out what Sherlock meant by that."

"Oh my goodness!" She laughed again then took another sip of tea. "Thank you for staying with me," she said quietly, "Losing Sherlock again.. and John's off, being married... It's going to be so hard without my boys..."

Philip cupped her hand and rubbed her knuckles. "Was Sherlock related?"

She shook her head then tapped her temple with her free hand, "Only up here. Friends are the family we get to choose, after all. He was the closest to a son as I'll ever have."

Philip chuckled, thinking of the state of the flat and Sherlock's all-hours time-keeping, "Must be some kid!"

"Oh goodness, he could be," she laughed, "But he could be absolutely precious, too, and very protective of the people he cares about."

Philip nodded silently. He drained his cup and Mrs. Hudson reached for the remote to turn off the telly. 

Then it happened. 

"Oh my god," Philip breathed over the staccato voice, "What the hell is _that_?"

Mrs. Hudson covered her mouth, "Oh, what have they done?!"

"And they've sent him away. They bloody sent him away oh God that **can't** be a coincidence!"

"But I thought Sherlock cleaned up all of Moriarty's network?"

"He must have missed a few spots," Philip shook his head, equally mystified. They watched in silent horror then sat through while the news recounted the bizarre event. 

The front door slammed open, scaring them both. "Sherlock!," John's voice called as feet stomped furiously up the stairs, " _Sherlock!_ " and he followed up. 

Philip and Mrs. Hudson looked at each other. "Erm.. Shall I consider your lease renewed, dear?" she quavered.

"If you please, Mrs. Hudson," came Sherlock's voice. Then things started breaking. 

Philip went up the stairs and leaned into the doorway, "What happened?"

"It's a good job the plane was delayed," John said. 

"Hell, yeah! Whoever's behind it cut it too close because that can't be a coincidence."

Sherlock stopped hurling things and stared at him. Then he spun about and grabbed a printed picture of Moriarty. "I wish," he grabbed the knife from the fireplace mantle, "That everyone," he pressed the photograph against the case wall, "Would make up their **fucking** minds!" and stabbed it there with the knife.

"Well if it's all the same to you, I'd just as soon have you back," Philip said into the sudden silence.

Mrs. Hudson and John nodded, "Yeah." "Mm-hmm." "Yup." "Oh yes." Sherlock gave them all a withering stare. 

Philip checked his watch, "Ah.. going to be late for work... um.. Welcome home?"

"No."

"Right. Catch you later then. Bye!" Philip beat a hasty retreat but he couldn't stop grinning. 

* * * *

"Jesus Christ," Philip breathed, staring. He took out his phone and dialed, heedless of the time. "Sherlock? It's Phil. You're going to want to see this."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (askdjfdioghdfl _finally_ done with _His Last Vow_ and can move along to the speculative fanfiction now *flail*)


End file.
